


Floating

by hit_the_books



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Eventual Smut, F/M, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is for winchestersinthedrift and deansdirtylittlesecretsblogs' <a href="http://winchestersinthedrift.tumblr.com/post/122953715638/july-round-writers-prompts">Girl In Every Port Project.</a></p><p>Prompt: a witness to the supernatural.</p><p>It's just a simple haunting. A salt and burn. Nothing else to it... Or not, as Sam and Dean discover when Sam questions their only witness.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/post/124404466665/floating">Find the story on Tumblr here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Floating

The beeps of the heart monitor woke you up. You’d been comfortably down in some deep dark place, not needed. And then the bip-bip-bip-bip had invaded and you’d crawled, reluctantly, out of the dark. Opening your eyes, you finally saw the hospital room you’d been put in. When? You didn’t know. Why? You couldn’t quite remember.

A pair of hazel eyes had stared at you from a seat set across from your bed. The man had a distinctive, firm jaw, hair that looked about ready to fall around his face, and a cheap grey suit, white shirt and red-blue-white striped tie.

“Great, you’re awake Y/N. Is it okay for me to call you Y/N?” Asked the man.

Clearing your throat, you nodded and weakly said “water” finding your throat and mouth dry.

The suited man obliged and poured a cup of water from a nearby jug into a small cup on a bedside table, slotted a straw in the cup and passed it over to you. You sipped and said thanks, saying no more, waiting for the stranger to say something.

“Do you recall what happened two days ago?” The man asked.

 _So, I’ve been out of it for that long_ , you thought to yourself, contemplating the man’s large hands as they reached in his suit jacket pocket for a pen and notepad. The past week, was, as you thought about it, all a bit hazy to you. You remembered teaching your college classes as normal, forcing yourself to attend your father’s funeral, but you were missing huge chunks up until a week and-a-half ago. You certainly didn’t recall what might have happened to put you in hospital in the first place.

Finally you shook your head in a “no”. “Who are you?” You asked, frowning.

The man put his pen and notepad in one hand and pulled out an FBI badge from his jacket. “Agent Joe Perry, FBI.”

“Well, Joe? Is it okay if I call you Joe?” The agent nodded. “Joe, I don’t actually remember much of the past week and a half, everything’s a bit hazy. Do you know what happened to me?”

The agent put his badge away and flipped open his notebook. “According to eyewitness statements: you were travelling in a glass floored elevator, which suffered a catastrophic structural failure and that resulted in you plummeting six stories.”

Trying not to show shock at what Joe had said, you went on the defensive. “And I’m here? What exactly makes this of interest to the FBI, agent?”

The agent wasn’t giving up. “What do you know about the gym that lost a wall-length mirror last week? Or the lecture hall windows that suddenly imploded and pelted students with glass?”

“What makes this an FBI matter?” But his questions were stirring your memory, and you could distantly hear the screams of your students.

“Your father recently died, didn’t he, Y/N?”

The room thrummed with an invisible energy, you could feel your skin prickling from it. Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was a low hum and you turned to look at the window that looked out at the parking lot. If you blinked, you would miss it, but the glass of the window was gently shuddering, as if an immense pressure was being applied to it. You turned to look at the blind covered glass that would normally look into the ward and you sensed it shaking.

“Your fath-” Joe started to repeat, but was cut off by the room’s windows, internal and external, suddenly exploding outwards into thousands of pieces.

That put the agent on his feet as screams and yells filtered in from the rest of the ward. Nurses and doctors barrelled into your room and Agent Perry was gone. Melting away within the blink of an eye.

*

Not wanting to test the limits of your medical coverage any further, you discharged yourself from hospital the same day as the exploding glass. Things were slowly coming back to you. You were let go wearing the clothes you had come in with: some jeans, sneakers, zip up hoody and t-shirt - a little tattered, but fine considering what had happened.

Agent Joe Perry had yet to make another appearance and you were determined to just head home and relax. Deal with whatever was going on by drinking tea and listening to some records. But when the cab had pulled up outside your house, you had noticed an imposing, classic muscle car parked up outside your house. It looked out of place beside the outside the three-bed you’d inherited from your great grandfather. Paying for your fare, you’d stepped out and walked up to your front door and found it ajar.

And you heard a voice. Agent Joe Perry and some other man, talking with each other from your lounge.

“Gotta be a ghost,” this was Joe, “her father died recently. Mysterious circumstances too.”

“Do you think she killed her father?” Asked the other man’s voice.

“I dunno Dean, but I don’t think so. Still, something doesn’t seem right. This is a lot of power for a newly minted ghost.”

“Well, it’s not like the afterlife is precise and predictable, Sam. Weird can get weirder.”

“Sam?” You mouthed silently, edging into the house, footsteps light. Aiming to retrieve the cordless landline phone that was kept in the hall, you hoped to call the cops from the safety of the front lawn. But just as you were picking up the phone, Agent Perry and, you assumed, Dean stepped out from the lounge and into your hallway. Both were carrying shotguns. Agent Perry was no longer dressed in a suit, instead wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, and looking nothing like an FBI agent. Dean was similarly dressed.

“Hey!” Shouted Dean.

Instinctively, you turned and bolted. But they were too fast. An unfamiliar hand closed around your left wrist and you felt an energy like the one back in your hospital room.

Agent Perry called out a warning to the hand’s owner, Dean, but it was too late. There was a muffled “son of a bitch” and a thud as Dean was sent crashing into a hallway wall by an unseen force. You stopped trying to get away and turned to see Dean shaking his head and trying to stand up, clearly a bit shaken. Agent Perry was staring at you.

There was a dull ache in your head and your chest was heaving, as if you’d just been running.

“The air isn’t cold,” Agent Perry said to Dean as the other man stood up. Agent Perry’s gaze was one of confusion as he looked at you.

The air went cold; the front door slammed shut.

“Uh, you sure about that?” Dean asked as he got back to his feet.

Breath rising in front of you, your eyes widened in horror as a familiar form flickered into existence in the middle of the hallway. Your father was there in your house and he looked pissed.

“Y/N,” the ghost of your father moaned.

“Okay, that is a ghost,” Agent Perry admitted.

You didn’t know if you should scream, shout or run. Agent Perry decided for you: he fired his shotgun at the apparition, the shell seeming to blast it away.

“He won’t be gone for long. We need to run. Now,” ordered Dean.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Sprinting for the door, you rushed back out of your house and headed for the curb. Chest heaving you looked back at the house, the guys reaching reaching you a second later.

Dean put a hand on your shoulder. “So... Casper the unfriendly ghost there, that your dad?”

There were tears in your eyes. The moments that you could remember of your father’s recent death were hard to recall. But there had been no mistaking the spectre that had been inside the house.

“I think so,” you replied in a quiet voice. Blinds were twitching from neighbouring properties.

“How’d he die?” Dean asked.

“Dean, we need to move,” Agent Perry stated looking around the street.

Stifling a sob you replied, “I don’t know. Please, let me go now, please.”

Dean dropped his hand. “How come you-”

Sam put a hand on Dean. “Look: we need to go now.”

“I don’t fully remember!” You cried out. But there was more than just loudness to your voice. There was a force there, and Dean and Sam fell on their asses onto the curb.

Both rubbed their faces, as if punched, and scrambled back to their feet.

“Look, we can’t stay here,” said Agent Perry, “Y/N, we won’t hurt you, but we need to go somewhere safe to talk.”

*

“You’re not really an FBI agent are you?” You asked, nestling a bottle of beer between your hands. It was evening. The three of you were sat in a booth at a local bar, Agent Perry and Dean opposite you with their own bottles of beer.

“No, I’m not… We’re-”

Dean cleared his throat warningly.

“Dean, she has a right to know, after what she’s seen. What she’s witnessed around her.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam ignored him and continued talking. "I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean. We help people."

Dean smirked and took a pull of his beer before replying, "Yeah, we take care of crap the cops won't touch. Supernatural crap."

You looked at your beer. “Like ghosts?”

“Like ghosts.” You looked up and Sam smiled at you. Dimples showing. Your heart fluttered a little.

“So, Y/N, do you carry anything of your father’s around with you?” Dean asked before taking a sip of his beer.

“No,” you replied firmly, a hint of anger in your voice.

Dean looked at Sam. “Sam, the mirrors, the windows… that elevator. That wasn’t a ghost.”

Frowning, you looked between the brothers. “Why wasn’t it a ghost?”

“Normally, a ghost is tied to its place of death or where its remains are, or an object or place it had a close affinity with in life. I assume your father didn’t have a close affinity with any of those locations.” Sam took a sip of his beer, but the way he had explained things made it sound like he was holding something back. A theory he didn’t want to speak yet.

There was a dull pain in your head. Like you were trying to remember something really hard, but couldn’t. You massaged your forehead with both hands, closing your eyes.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice was distant and far away.

Your breathing quickened. The table started to shake.

“Hey, hey, Y/N, hey, you’re okay, you’re safe,” Sam’s voice soothed.

Slowly, your breathing calmed, the pain in your head lessened and the table stopped shaking.

You opened your eyes and looked at Sam and Dean. Dean had a worried frown, while Sam was looking at you with sympathy. Flicking your eyes to the rest of the bar, you noticed you had an audience.

“Maybe we should head back to the motel?” Dean suggested, getting up from the table.

*

There was another bottle of beer between your hands. You were sat on the floor of Sam and Dean’s motel room, back against one of their beds. The guys were sat in seats beside a table, notebooks and books open, a laptop nestled among a pile of printouts.

No one had said anything since you’d all settled down. But you had no idea what to say.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat and asked, “Y/N: how long have you been able to affect things with your mind?”

Without thinking, you stood up, your stance tense. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about how glass doesn’t like staying in one piece around you. About how I’ve ended up on my ass twice today. The bar-”

“Look, I-”

The bed you had been leaning against was trembling. It wasn’t built to vibrate. Your breathing was fast. The air thick.

“Hey, hey, Y/N, look, you’re safe here. We’re just trying to understand what’s going on,” Sam said as he stood up and walked over to you. He put his large right hand to your face, it was cool from holding his beer, and stroked your left cheek. The touch was reassuring.

“You’re safe, Y/N,” Sam soothed. Your breathing calmed and the bed stopped trembling.

A memory flashed inside your mind. You saw your father flying against the banisters at the bottom of the stairs in your house and crumpling to the floor. A handgun resting beside him and the smell of gunpowder in the air.

“I think I might have killed my dad, but I don’t know for sure, Sam. God, what am I?”

*

“She spent how long there?” That was Dean, in a half-whisper. You’d fallen asleep not long after the shaking bed and woken up to find yourself laid out on it. Your back was to the guys as they talked. It was night.

“Most of her childhood was spent in that institution,” Sam whispered back. You heard papers being shifted. “And she had an experimental ECT treatment regime. I’m surprised it was sanctioned, considering her age then. Her diagnosis was dissociative identity disorder with co-morbid depression.”

“Did her father know what she cou-”

“Maybe, looking at the notes here, I think her telekinesis was forcibly diagnosed as dissociative identity disorder with co-morbid depression. A diagnosis pushed by her father. But why?”

Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t know, but look at this: her late great grandfather used to be a psychic performer for a travelling circus. Did quite well out of it. Spoon bending. Levitation. Imprinting on magnetic tape through touch. A full telekinetic smorgasbord.”

“Skipped a few generations,” replied Sam.

“Her mother? Did she go Carrie on her mother?”

“Unsure. Died when Y/N was nine. When she was ten she was sent-”

You sat up on the bed and shifted to look at the guys. “Maybe you guys should talk more quietly? Or just ask me this stuff to my face?”

Sam looked back at you with guilt ridden, puppy dog eyes. Dean squared his shoulders, looking as if he were ready to be thrown into a wall again.

“Maybe if you didn't have narcolepsy or throw people into walls, we could get some Q&A going?” Dean fired back.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Sam replied.

You scooted off the bed and stretched. Things were beginning to make sense, or rather most of your life was beginning to make sense.

You looked down at your hands, “I’m really a freak.”

You hardly registered Sam’s movement, but suddenly he was stood beside you, his arms wrapped around yours and holding you tight. Your body was flush against his and his strength was comforting, as was his scent of old books, musk and gun oil.

“You are not a freak,” Sam said calmly, his voice vibrating in your head.

“Really?” You asked into Sam’s chest.

“Really.”

Dean cleared his throat. “While I am all for touchy feely moments, we have a ghost that needs to be dealt with.”

“I remember more now. His death was an accident, self-defense even,” you said, turning your head away from Sam’s chest. “There were some bullet holes at head height, my head height, in my hallway.” You pulled away from Sam.

Dean paused for a moment as he went to pick up his jacket and headed for the door. “He pulled a gun on you?”

You looked at your feet. “Yeah.”

“Then we need to take care of the bastard,” Dean replied and you looked back up at him. “And then, then-”

“Then we teach her, Dean. We can’t leave town without helping her through… this,” Sam finished.

“Fine. But,” Dean looked into your eyes, struggling to make sense of the monster they were hunting, “why’d he pull a gun on you?”

You retained eye contact as you answered. “Jealousy? My great grandfather didn’t leave him a thing. And my grandfather, his father, had nothing to leave. I think it finally got to him.”

Dean’s face hardened. “Time to salt and burn this son of a bitch.”

*

The guys did not want you to tag along with them to a cemetery in the middle of the night. But you demanded some closure. Sam was the one who had caved. Dean had insisted you stayed at least six feet away from the edge of the grave while they dug, and hold a crowbar in case your father’s ghost turned up.

“Shame we haven’t got you schooled yet,” Dean said, almost dreamily, as he shoveled another load of dirt out of the grave, his work illuminated by the moon. “You just wrinkle your nose a little bit, or whatever, and bam, the dirt is gone.”

Sam laughed at this, and Dean and you joined in.

Catching your breath, you said, “Once I’m not smashing up lecture theaters, I’m going back to teaching.”

“What do… you… teach?” Sam asked as he flung another pile of earth out.

“Postmodern theory for media analysis, ma-” The cold night air grew even colder. You father’s ghost was stood right in front of you. “Guys!”

“Hit him with the crowbar!” Bellowed Dean, getting out of the grave first and picking up a nearby shotgun.

What telekinetic skill your father had lacked in life, he had quickly acquired in death. As you swung the crowbar at his spectral form, the cold iron was ripped from your hands by an invisible force and you were propelled away from your father’s grave.

Before Dean could get a shot in, he too was similarly thrown like a ragdoll. You heard Sam’s spade hit the wood of your father’s casket. It was time for a distraction.

“HEY!” You shouted at your father’s ghost. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

The ghost turned to you, a look of pure malice on its face. You recognised the cruelness of the look in its ghostly eyes, treated to it so many times in your father’s life. The look that had preceded his warning shots. The gaze that had menaced your great grandfather on his deathbed. The stare that had regretted your release from care... The glare that had silenced you when you had tried to protect your mother from the knife your father had held.

Dean was back on his feet, shotgun in his hands.

Dean fired and the rock salt shells sent the spectral figure of your father into ethereal dust, but not before he shared a knowing grin with you. “SAM!” Shouted Dean, as he began to reload the shotgun.

“FUCK!” Sam yelled, the impotent tink, tink of the lighter’s flint carried through the night.

Appearing for an encore, your father threw Sam aside like the trunk of a man was nothing. Sam was unfazed, but needed time to scramble to his feet. Your crowbar was too far away. But you realised it need not be.

Your breathing quickened. The cold air filled with an unrealised force. If you could just, focus enough, focus on the right-

The crowbar lifted from the dewy grass and flew at your father’s ghost. The cold iron found its mark and the ghost dissipated once more, giving Sam the time he needed to get the lighter working and throw it in your father’s grave. Finally, flames greedily leapt up into the air.

Appearing one last time, your father’s ghost drifted towards you with its hands outreached, a silent howl of fury contorting his mouth. And then he vanished in a flash of ghostly fire and ash.

“Great job,” Sam congratulated as he reached where you now stood. Your chest was heaving and your head felt sore. He clasped his right arm on your left shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah… just tired.”

*

What appeared to be shock set in the moment you sat in the back of their car. Sam was quick to notice the change in you and clambered onto the back seat with you while Dean drove back to your house. You’d managed to mutter something about not wanting to go to hospital.

Sam had carried you into your house and it was like a well rehearsed dance between the brothers as they got what they needed to get you comfortable in the lounge and manage the symptoms. Your head felt ragged and your nose kept bleeding. It was a rough night.

Dawn was creeping in when your symptoms finally abated and you sat up on your couch. Sam was asleep on one end and Dean had managed to crash in an armchair. Quietly, you slipped out of the lounge and headed to the kitchen.

The aroma of the black coffee you brought to the guys woke them and they both gave you bleary eyed smiles as they took the hot drinks from you. Bringing in your own coffee, you chose to sit on a beanbag between the two of them.

“So this teaching me thing? What does it involve?”

Sam seemed to straighten up at the return to the previous night’s conversation. “Uh, well, I know certain, exercises that will help you focus and control your gift-”

“Sam,” Dean’s voice growled, “are you going to be teaching Y/N the same demon crap that Ruby showed you?!”

You had no idea what Dean was talking about. Looking between the two brothers, a silent battle of wills unfolded between them. The word “demon” had got you worried.

“It’s comparable, Dean. Look: do we know any other telekinetic people we can just waltz Y/N on over to?” Sam stood up, adding his height to make his point. “Plus, a bunch of it’s going to be just meditation stuff.”

Dean stood up too. He glowered at his brother, but had nothing more to say.

Finally, from your lowdown position on the floor, you managed to squeak, “Demon? Demonic?”

Suddenly remembering that you were right there, Sam looked down at you and smiled. “It’s nothing. Trust me: I’ll help you learn to control your powers.”

*

Hanging in town a little longer than they normally would, and taking advantage of free bedspace, Sam carefully taught you methods, techniques and tricks to try and keep things under control. He also started teaching how to use your gift. At no point did he make you feel like you were a freak, as the two of you regaled each other with campus stories, dates gone wrong and ways of serving kale.

You knew you wouldn’t be a hundred percent in control before Sam and Dean left, but it was planned for you to keep on practicing. Call them if you needed help.

The afternoon the day before Dean and Sam planned to leave, you were alone with Sam in your living room. Dean was out at the nearest bar. You’d just managed to stack a book on a bookshelf without touching it. Sliding it into position with little effort and no headache. You felt calm and happy.

Sam was smiling at you. “Well, I think you’re definitely getting there. You’ll be fine.”

“Shall we go and join Dean at the bar?” You asked as you stood up from where you’d been sat on your lounge floor. You were a little unsteady on your feet and as you swayed, but Sam was at your side in an instant, steadying you as he held your right arm. You could feel his warmth rolling off of him, hear him breathing faster than normal.

Turning to him, your arm still in his hand, you looked up at his face and his eyes were wide open. He licked his lips.

“Maybe,” Sam said, unable to take his eyes off of you, “we could stay here.”

You took a step closer and angled your mouth. “Right here?” You asked softly.

Sam moved his face closer to yours. You felt his warm breath on your face. “Right here,” he replied softly, lowering his lips to yours and gently kissing you. The contact was sweet. Sam let go of your arm and placed his hands on your hips, easing you closer as he continued to bend down to kiss you.

This first kiss was chaste. The second had Sam sucking at your bottom lip, and you opening your mouth to his, eager, all hot and breathy. Your tongues danced over each other, tasting, learning. Sam was all strong coffee and strawberries. It was like no other kiss you had had before. Pulling away for a moment to gasp for air, you motioned to Sam, suggesting the two of you move upstairs. Sam nodded and led the way.

Exchanging another kiss at the bottom of the stairs, you were soon both inside your room, you on top of Sam, still fully dressed, kissing. Sam’s hands wandered between your hips, back and breasts, stroking them all - occasionally teasing. Things were moving slowly, but you couldn’t help getting wet under Sam’s ministrations and he couldn’t help getting hard beneath you.

Grinding into each other, lips red and swollen, Sam was the one who finally caved. “I need to be inside you, Y/N,” Sam moaned as you moved on top of him.

“I need a little more first,” you replied.

“What do you want me to do?”

You clambered off of Sam and started pulling off your jeans, shirt and underwear, nodding for Sam to do the same. Once you were both naked, you asked Sam to hold you on the bed, you within his arms, and then guided his right hand down your stomach to your slit.

“Please,” you moaned, pressing Sam’s enormous fingers up against your dripping hole.

“So wet,” Sam groaned and then slipped his index finger inside you and then out, smearing more juices over your folds. Your breath hitched under his expert touch. You could feel his hard on digging into your back as he worked you with the one finger before adding a second.

His left hand slid up from your hips and cupped your left breast, before reaching your nipple. It felt good as Sam teased your nipple between his fingers, making it harden. Involuntarily, you bucked towards Sam’s right hand, making him push inside you deeper and then he hit it, that spot, and your core tightened as Sam realised what he was doing to you and picked up the pace.

“Please, Sam,” you begged, hot and needy. Sam rubbed at your clit with his thumb and quickened his strokes inside you as you flowed over his hand. His left hand squeezed your left breast tight as you bucked against him again and he bucked his dick towards you, desperate to keep the friction of your squirming body.

You then clenched down around him, shuddering, breath held, as your orgasm hit and Sam couldn’t help thrusting at your back. You vaguely felt precome smearing across your skin. Coming down, Sam gently pulled his fingers out of you and shifted so that he could lay you in the middle of the bed.

“Condoms?” Sam asked hoarsely, voice thick with need.

You pointed towards the top drawer beside your bed. Finding a suitable condom, Sam opened the pack and eased the condom over his dick.

“Sam…” you moaned impatiently. But you didn’t have to wait long. Getting back on the bed, Sam opened up your legs, pulling your knees up, and lined himself with you. Slowly, he pushed himself inside, filling you up and then he brought his face back to yours, leaning over you.

Caressing your lips with his, Sam began to thrust, slowly and evenly. And while there was a need there, Sam’s motions seemed more about love than getting himself off. There was a tenderness there that you had not experienced in some time and it made you wish for a moment that Sam wasn’t leaving the following day.

You allowed your hands to start exploring Sam, stroking his biceps, teasing his pecs. And then you curled your hands on to the sides of his back, holding him that bit closer. Sam pulled away from your kisses and you looked at each other. The warmth and kindness in Sam’s gaze was overwhelming.

But neither of you said the words. Because of tomorrow. Instead you sighed together, content, and Sam’s mouth drifted lazily back down to yours and you kissed each other deeply. Sam’s hips sped up a little and that sudden brief change was enough, as you felt the pressure build and build.

Suddenly, you came again, shuddering around Sam, moaning into his mouth. You felt Sam smirk a little and as your orgasm stopped rocking you, you lifted your right foot off the bed and playfully kicked his ass. It was gentle, but Sam got the message, speeding up once more.

And then it was Sam’s turn to moan as you kissed and you felt his breathing quicken. He was close. You felt a little light headed from the intensity of it all, but ignored it as Sam changed his angle slightly and then his dick was hitting your sweet spot and you had to urge him on. Hands grabbing at him, legs clenching, tongue chasing.

When you fell into a well of intense pleasure once more, your orgasm sending you bucking towards Sam, Sam chose then to pull away from your kisses as he cried out your name. He shuddered as his own orgasm ripped through him, hair sticking to his face with sweat. Riding it out, he put his lips to yours again and gently kissed you, smiling as he did.

Once your orgasms had subsided, Sam began to pull away and then he stopped. “Y/N, could you ease us back down?”

The mattress was floating two feet off of the bed frame and with this realisation you had to suddenly not drop the two of you. Concentrating, drawing on what Sam had been patiently teaching you, you lowered the mattress until it was once more flush with the frame.

Giving you a quick kiss, Sam finally pulled away and removed the condom, tying it off and putting it in the trash. As you made to get off the bed, Sam was quickly by your side, pulling you back down with him, so that he could spoon you from behind. He was incredibly warm and it felt good to be cradled in his strong arms.

Sam and you made love twice more before Dean finally returned from the bar.

“About damn time!” Dean had half-drunkenly cried when he found the two of you kissing in the lounge.

And while you couldn’t look forward to their departure, you were grateful for all that their arrival had done.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr at [Dreams from the Bunker](http://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks to [Zeryx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeryx/pseuds/Zeryx) for beta reading this for me.


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